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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30143934">of birds' hung havens</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilit/pseuds/perilit'>perilit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>In What Direction [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Terminal Illnesses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:16:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,446</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30143934</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilit/pseuds/perilit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has proved itself too cruel for mercy. </p><p>In the aftermath of the bridge job, John finds out about Arthur's illness and struggles to imagine a world without his brother in it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>In What Direction [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2260856</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. remember them kindly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi. I'm back.</p><p>This is going to be very, very heavy on the "hurt" side, and very light on the "comfort" side, which is why I didn't even tag that part. If that's not your thing, you have my blessing to leave now. </p><p>I make no apologies.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The bridge had blown up, alright, and John watched it with a mix of awe and terror. </p><p>It wasn’t natural for things to shatter apart like that. It sure was something to watch, though.</p><p>Arthur didn’t seem quite as impressed. </p><p>He’d walked John back over to the wagon, the whole time insisting John get Abigail and Jack and get out. <em>Build a life for himself,</em> Arthur had said. </p><p>It wasn’t like John was blind to the way things had gone from bad to hopeless, or the way Dutch seemed hellbent on driving them all into the grave. Hell, he didn’t even disagree with Arthur about needing to leave before things got uglier. </p><p>What he didn’t understand was the way Arthur seemed resigned to his own fate.</p><p><br/>
As he drives the wagon away, John hears Arthur cough, wet and crackling, the way he’s been doing for weeks now. </p><p>Something was wrong. Wrong enough that Arthur had become indifferent to his own fate.</p><p>John drops the reins to the wagon and whistles for Old Boy. </p><p>Arthur is hunched over on one of the barrels, which only makes John’s concern spike further. He’s never known Arthur to sit around, especially not in the aftermath of a job. There’s bound to be law around, and he’d have expected Arthur to be long gone by now, maybe holed up in one of the safehouses the man miraculously produces from somewhere every time things go south. </p><p>John slides off of Old Boy.</p><p>Arthur straightens when he sees John, ears reddening. </p><p>“What-” Arthur clears his throat. His voice is painfully hoarse. “What are you doing here?” </p><p>John frowns. “Came back for you. Glad I did. You sound…”</p><p>Arthur heaves a sigh. John picks out the way it rattles at the end. “It’s nothing, John.”</p><p>“Ain’t nothing. You hear yourself?” John argues. “C’mon.” He waves a hand toward the horses. Cadell has moved closer to Old Boy and the two have started to graze by the road. </p><p>Arthur grunts. “M’fine. Safer if we go alone.” </p><p>John shakes his head, annoyed Arthur is still trying to fight him on this. Right now, Arthur looks like a strong breeze would blow him over. “Do you think you can even shoot straight?”</p><p>Arthur whirls toward him, teeth bared. “I reckon I've made it just <em>fine</em> on my own- </p><p>John’s grateful for their closeness when Arthur suddenly breaks off, his knees buckling as a cough rips through his body. He scrambles to slide an arm under Arthur.</p><p>“Shit, Arthur, hey-”</p><p>Arthur turns his head away from John, shaking his head. “Don’t-” He wheezes.</p><p>John startles at the alarm in Arthur’s face. He lowers Arthur to the grass, giving the man space. </p><p>Arthur catches his breath and sags to the ground like his strings have been cut. </p><p>“You’re riding back with me.” John says firmly. </p><p>Arthur seemingly has no energy or breath to argue, getting to his feet and following John to the horses.</p><p> </p><p><br/>
They ride until it’s dark. John lets Arthur set up his own bedroll, not wanting to piss off the man any more than he already has. He gets a fire going for the both of them and chucks two cans of beans near the coals. </p><p>Arthur shakes his head when John holds the can out to him. “Not hungry.”</p><p>John makes a frustrated noise. “Arthur-” </p><p>Arthur turns his back and crawls into his bedroll.</p><p>John sighs.</p><p> </p><p><br/>
Arthur doesn’t wake before him, which is even more unusual. <br/>
In the harsh light of morning, John can see how hollowed Arthur’s face has become, the way the shadows under his eyes look more like bruises.</p><p>John doesn’t dare injure Arthur’s pride more by waking the man up. Instead, he packs as quietly as he can, and is saved by Arthur rousing as he’s loading up Old Boy’s saddlebags. </p><p>“Morning,” John says carefully. </p><p>Arthur nods at him, packing up Cadell and helping John flatten the fire. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. in their time of trouble</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>John finds out just how sick Arthur really is.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They’re a half hour from camp when John hears Arthur make a little noise like he’s got something caught in his throat. He turns in the saddle, but Arthur just flips him off with his fist to his mouth. </p>
<p>John rolls his eyes, turning back to the road.</p>
<p>Not ten minutes later, John hears Arthur take a stuttering inhale, and then start to cough: deep, wheezing exhales that make John’s own lungs ache in sympathy. He turns again in the saddle to see Arthur’s whole body shaking with the force of the fit. </p>
<p>John pulls Old Boy off the road, expecting Arthur to do the same. Instead, Arthur swings a leg over, shakily sliding down from the saddle, still coughing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John slips from his own saddle in time to see his brother’s knees buckle. </p>
<p>Arthur is curled in on himself in the dirt. His lungs sound like they’re trying to expel themselves from his body - Arthur barely has time to drag in a breath before he’s heaving again. </p>
<p>John drops to his knees, hands hovering over Arthur’s body. </p>
<p>He has a foggy memory of Dutch hauling Hosea upright when the man’s lungs went from bad to worse. He slides his hands under Arthur’s armpits, propping his brother up against his own chest. </p>
<p>Arthur spasms in his arms, body taut with pain.</p>
<p>Dimly, John thinks that this might be his punishment for all the way he's ever wronged Arthur, sitting helpless while Arthur spits and coughs and shakes, completely at the mercy of whatever hell is ravaging through his body. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Eventually, Arthur’s breathing slows, and John feels a second of relief before he realizes that it’s because Arthur’s passed out. His breath hasn’t returned to normal: instead, it’s slowed to painful, wheezing inhales followed by terrifying silence where John doesn’t know if Arthur’s still breathing. </p>
<p>Whatever this is, John’s not equipped to deal with it on his own, and he’ll be damned if he lets Arthur die on the side of the road. </p>
<p>It’s easier than it should be to pull Arthur up into the saddle in front of him. Arthur’s the same height as ever, but John can feel his ribs and spine easily through his shirt. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur rouses a short distance from camp, shifting against John and mumbling a string of incoherent syllables. </p>
<p>“Wha’…” It’s followed by a cough that would’ve jerked him off of the horse if not for John’s arm around him. </p>
<p>“You passed out on me.” John says. It doesn’t come out as lighthearted as he intended it to. Instead, he just sounds scared.</p>
<p>Arthur suppresses another cough, shuddering. “S’fine.” </p>
<p>John pulls Old Boy to a stop. </p>
<p>“Will you drop the act already?” He bites out, annoyed. “You coughed so hard I thought you were gonna stop breathing, Arthur. Whatever the hell is going on, it’s sure as hell not fine.”</p>
<p>Arthur’s quiet for a long moment and John thinks he might have passed out again.</p>
<p>“Saw a doctor.” His words are stilted, like he’s in pain.</p>
<p>“And?” John presses.</p>
<p>“Nothin’ good.” </p>
<p>John snorts, though there’s no humor in it. “I got that part.”</p>
<p>Arthur waves a hand toward the road. “I-” He sighs. “Don’t wanna do this on the back of a horse.” </p>
<p>John rolls his eyes but pulls off the road again. He swings down, holding out a hand to Arthur. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur gives him a look. John doesn’t back down. Arthur sighs and takes the outstretched hand, sliding down from the saddle. He makes his way to the thicket on the roadside, settling down on a stump. John leans back against a tree, watching Arthur carefully.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s too quiet. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“John,” Arthur says softly. “I’m dyin’. TB.”</p>
<p>John blinks. </p>
<p>Waits for Arthur to grin, to punch him in the shoulder and laugh about his joke. Instead, Arthur just looks at him, exhausted.</p>
<p>The world spins around John and suddenly everything feels very far away. He dimly registers the feeling of the brush digging into his knees. </p>
<p>“No.” It’s his own voice. He can feel the burn of tears somewhere in his skull. “<em>No, Arthur</em>, you...you can’t-” </p>
<p>Arthur is still looking at him, something like sympathy -or maybe pity- glimmering in his eyes.</p>
<p>The first sob surprises him. It seems to surprise Arthur too, because the man looks up suddenly, watching John with muted shock. </p>
<p>John feels like a kid again, crying with Arthur looking on, his ears burning with embarrassment at losing it like this, but unable to stop because -</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur’s dying.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Unshakeable, invincible Arthur is fading away in front of him and there’s not a damn thing John can do. </p>
<p>He jolts a little when he feels a touch to his shoulder, and then he’s collapsing into Arthur’s chest, gripping the man’s jacket with desperate fists and burying his face into the fabric.</p>
<p>“Shhhh. You’ll be alright,” Arthur murmurs. “Not worth all this fuss, now, c’mon.” He sounds ten years younger, like John’s just woken up from a nightmare, and suddenly, John’s ten years younger, too.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Twelve years old, weeping into Arthur’s chest in the middle of the night because he had a nightmare about the rope around his neck-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Fourteen, spitting water and mud at Arthur after the man pushed him into the lake and then had to fish him out because John never learned how to swim-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Sixteen, and Arthur doesn’t come out from his tent for three days. Hosea tells him gently that Arthur found Eliza and Isaac dead. John sneaks into Arthur’s tent that night. He doesn’t tell anyone about the way Arthur cries in his sleep, or the way he hugs John like he’s afraid if he lets go, John might die, too-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Eighteen, and Arthur’s digging a bullet out from John’s ribs, smoothing back his sweaty hair and apologizing with every cry of pain John makes-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Twenty-two, holding a son he’s still not sure is even his and pretending not to notice the longing and grief in Arthur’s face-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Twenty-six, and wondering how the hell he’s supposed to keep living in a world without Arthur in it.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>John cries until he runs out of tears. </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. and in the hour of their taking away...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dutch finds out about Arthur's diagnosis.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When he comes back to himself, Arthur is watching him with poorly-hidden grief. His eyes are red, too, but John doesn’t know if it’s from his own tears or the strain of coughing. </p><p>John sits up and scrubs a hand over his face roughly. </p><p>“You’ll be alright,” Arthur says quietly.</p><p>John stays silent. It’s not okay - nothing will ever be truly okay again. Instead, he gets to his feet, hauling Arthur up with him. </p><p>Arthur doesn’t argue when John holds out a hand to help him in the saddle. He settles in front of John, wheezing from the exertion, and lets John turn back onto the road towards camp.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br/>
Arthur doesn’t remember much of the ride back to camp. John is a warm, solid line on his back, and truth be told Arthur’s glad he’s not riding on his own. His body is a mess of pain, vision still hazy at the edges. More likely than not, it’s from the lack of food he’s consumed, but his stomach is just as likely to reject anything he tries to swallow as it is to settle. </p><p>Javier doesn’t do more than nod at them when they ride in, his eyes roving over Arthur and John riding together but flitting away, disinterested. </p><p> </p><p>Arthur has to suppress a groan when he slides off the horse, dull pain making itself known in his back as his feet hit the ground. John seems to sense it and turns around to look at him. Arthur waves him off tiredly. </p><p>He just wants to lie down.</p><p>John seems to sense that, too, because he’s grasping Arthur’s elbow - <em>Arthur realizes with a start he’d been headed in the wrong direction</em> - steering them in the direction of the tent. </p><p>Arthur lets him lead, his legs moving blindly where John pulls him along.</p><p> </p><p>The cot bumps against his knees and Arthur sits down heavily. If he had more strength, he’d be ashamed at the wheezing, exhausted breath he can’t seem to get under control. It was a short walk from the horses to his tent, but it feels like he’s just finished running for his life. </p><p>He blinks, and John is gone.</p><p>Instead, Tilly is there, her concerned face swimming in Arthur’s vision. Her hand feels like a lead weight, and he’s not strong enough to resist when she pushes him down onto the cot. </p><p>The world goes dark at the edges.</p><p>When Arthur surfaces again, there’s a blanket pulled up loosely around his waist, two pillows underneath him. Some part of him wants to protest at the comfort - why waste the resources on dead weight - but moving his mouth feels like an insurmountable task. </p><p>He manages a groan. </p><p>Someone shifts next to him, and Arthur realizes it’s Tilly as he catches the dark halo of her hair in the corner of his eye. Her small hand smooths across his forehead, and Arthur can’t help but lean into the touch. </p><p>“Shh, Arthur. Go back to sleep.”</p><p>He sleeps. </p><p> </p><p>He must have been out for hours because when he wakes again, the bright daylight has been replaced with pitch-dark. Someone has lit a lantern on his table, and for a while, he just drifts, watching the shadows the light throws against the canvas. </p><p>Someone raps on his tent post, and Arthur jerks out of his daze, hastily struggling to sit up. </p><p>“Come ‘n.”</p><p>
  <em>Christ. He sounds wrecked. </em>
</p><p>It’s Abigail, her face soft in the low light. There’s a bowl in her hand, a spoon tucked between her fingers. </p><p>“Figured I’d see if you were up to eatin’.”</p><p>Arthur feels guilt settle into his stomach at the way Abigail’s face falls when he shakes his head. He’s never hungry anymore. </p><p>Abigail’s face settles into determination and she pushes a canteen into his hands. “Drink somethin’ at least, then.” </p><p>Arthur takes the canteen from her, manages a few swallows before he feels the itch of a cough in his chest. He sets down the water and breathes shallow, not wanting to have a fit in front of Abigail. </p><p>Not when she’s already looking at him like he’s on his death bed -</p><p><em>Well</em>.</p><p>There’s another knock, and Abigail stands, bustling out of the tent when she catches a glance of the visitor. </p><p><br/>
Dutch lingers in the doorway, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. His arms are hanging loose and awkward by his sides. </p><p>Arthur realizes it’s the first time he’s seen the man without a cigar or gun in hand for months. He’s not surprised by Dutch’s hesitation - the man was never good with sickness or injury-</p><p>It was usually Hosea sitting by his bedside. </p><p>Arthur swallows the grief that has made itself known. </p><p> </p><p>“Dutch,” He acknowledges finally. </p><p>Dutch still hasn’t moved. Arthur watches his mouth open and close soundlessly. </p><p>“You need somethin’?” Arthur asks, feeling a sliver of annoyance at the way the man is lingering silently. He doesn’t have the energy for a speech right now. </p><p>“What...happened, Arthur?” It’s quiet. Dutch steps a fraction into the tent, enough that Arthur can see his face lit up clearly.</p><p>His eyes are clear, Arthur realizes, and if anyone deserves the truth - the whole truth - it’s Dutch. </p><p>“Thomas Downes,” Arthur says. “That sick man in Valentine.”</p><p>Dutch’s brow furrows. “What does he have to do with-”</p><p>“He owed Strauss money.” Arthur rasps. “He had TB, an' I beat him. Got his...blood in my mouth.” </p><p>Dutch goes quiet, and Arthur curls his toes under the blanket. Shame sits hot in his stomach.</p><p>“I saw a doctor when we came back from Guarma.” His throat is sandpaper. “I’m...dyin’, Dutch.”</p><p>Dutch is staring at him, his lips parted in shock. “No.” He whispers. “No, Arthur you’re gonna be fine, we’ll find-”</p><p>“Ain’t somethin’ you can fix, Dutch,” Arthur says tiredly. “It’s too late, anyway.”</p><p>There’s a cough sitting in his chest. He suppresses it with a twitch of pain. </p><p>Dutch's hand is shaking when the man reaches up to tug at his hair.</p><p>“Why would you do this?” It's quiet, devastated. </p><p>Arthur gapes at him for a moment before realizing Dutch isn’t joking. His dark eyes are wide with hurt. </p><p>“Why would I <em>do</em> this? You think I <em>wanted this</em>?” Arthur says quietly, voice trembling with anger. “I’m <em>dyin</em>’, Dutch, it’s not like I-”</p><p>He doesn’t get to finish before the cough rips through his chest. </p><p> </p><p>It <em>burns</em> this time, the tight ache in his chest erupting into agony. If Dutch protests the interruption, Arthur can’t hear him over the rushing in his ears.</p><p>He can’t summon the energy to spit when blood pools on his tongue. He lurches over the side of the cot, open-mouthed, letting it drip off his chin, sucking in a shallow gasp when the position puts pressure on his aching chest.</p><p>There’s a gentle hand lifting his torso up, then, bringing him to lean against a firm chest. He doesn’t stay upright for long, hunching back over on himself when another round of coughing steals his breath. The hand moves to his sternum, coaxing him back up. </p><p>He leans into the support, his head snapping forward as his lungs seize up again and again.</p><p>There’s a voice close to his ear, then, close enough that it cuts through the static. </p><p>“Breathe, son, <em>please</em>.”</p><p>It’s Dutch, sounding more terrified than Arthur’s ever heard him. </p><p>Arthur feels blindly for Dutch’s hand, holding on as tightly as he can.</p><p><br/>
He’s left boneless and trembling when the fit finally passes. Dutch’s body is a welcome support behind him.</p><p>“Arthur?” Dutch’s voice is still close to his ear, quieter now.</p><p>He can’t find the energy to speak, squeezing Dutch’s hand in lieu of a response. His body feels heavy, and he slumps a little further in Dutch’s hold. </p><p>Dutch seems to sense his discomfort, guiding Arthur’s limp body back down to lay on the cot fully.</p><p>The position is enough to take the edge off of the pain, and it’s too hard to keep his eyes open after that. There's water to his lips and Arthur swallows a little, turning his head away when the liquid threatens to wake the itch in his lungs again. </p><p>The bands of Dutch’s rings are a soothing cool on his skin when the man lays his hand on Arthur’s forehead.</p><p>“Arthur…” A pause. </p><p>Arthur’s lungs whistle in the silence. </p><p>“Get some rest, son.”</p><p> </p><p>He drifts.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I swear I'll write something happy after this one.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. and who shall ever tell the sorrow?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur learns what John's been up to, and gets a visit from Jack.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for having patience with me, folks! I'm a full-time student working 20 hours on the side, and late March/April is always a busy time of year.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dutch is gone when Arthur wakes. </p><p>It’s no surprise, especially these days - Arthur supposes he’s lucky the man came to see him at all. </p><p>He wonders if John had anything to do with it.</p><p> </p><p>That’s another thing that’s different, now.</p><p>John is...softer. Ever since Jack got taken, it’s like John’s finally got the sense knocked into him - Arthur can tell John’s genuinely trying, even if he makes a fool of himself as much as he does right.</p><p>Charles seems to have warmed up to John, too, and Arthur’s glad - it means that John won’t be alone, after.</p><p>The thought of death doesn’t frighten him as much as it did anymore. He’s tired all the time, and breathing hurts so much some days he wonders how Hosea ever managed to get anything done.</p><p>More than anything, he wishes for Hosea. He misses the man’s gentle hands and sharp tongue. Hosea would understand, would probably be sitting next to him right now, mortar and pestle in hand and something heady and bitter floating up from the bowl. Another part of Arthur is glad Hosea won’t have to see him like this, though. He’s not sure the man would have withstood another loss after Bessie, and as much as he hopes Dutch might mourn him, it won’t break Dutch now like it would break Hosea. </p><p>Maybe he’ll get to see Hosea again soon.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur’s about to close his eyes again when he hears footsteps outside the canvas. There’s a knock on the tent post.</p><p>“Uncle Arthur?”</p><p>Jack. He’s been trying to stay clear of the boy as much as he can, these days - he’d never forgive himself if Jack got sick, too - but he’s not about to turn the boy away now. </p><p>Arthur hauls himself upright, biting back a groan at the lance of pain that goes through him, swinging his legs over the side of the cot. It’s the first time he’s been properly upright since they got back to camp, and he can’t hide the slight breathlessness in his voice when he calls back to Jack.</p><p>“C’mon in, kid.” </p><p>Jack’s face is nervous when he pokes his head through the canvas, and Arthur can’t swallow the guilt at the thought that he might’ve scared the poor kid. He doesn’t remember who was around when he and John rode in. The slow, careful steps Jack takes towards him though make Arthur think he might’ve seen John helping his sorry ass back to his tent.</p><p>John’s not far behind Jack, eyes immediately flickering over Arthur’s face. The lines in his forehead relax when he doesn’t find whatever he’s looking for, and he puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder.</p><p>“Jack...wanted to come see you,” He explains. It’s clear John feels more than a little awkward around the terrified kid, but he’s trying, and Arthur tries to convey his pride when he gives John a nod.</p><p>Jack dips his head a little. “Momma said you were sick.” He says quietly. </p><p>Arthur bites his tongue to keep from snapping at John. God knows how many people the idiot told. </p><p>“I am, Jack, but it’s alright.” </p><p>Jack steps a little closer, his tiny fingers fidgeting with his shirtsleeve. “Will you be okay?” He says anxiously.</p><p>Arthur is careful to keep his face as neutral as he can. “I’ll be okay, Jack,” he lies smoothly. The effect is ruined by the slight catch in his breath at the end of the sentence, but Jack doesn’t seem to notice it, and Arthur manages to swallow down the itch successfully. </p><p>Jack’s face loses its nervousness, and he finally looks up at Arthur. “Momma said I shouldn’t bother you too much ‘cause you needed to rest, but can I come back later? Uncle Charles gave me a toy boat he made!”</p><p>Arthur can’t stop the way his lips twitch upward at Jack’s easy joy, nor can he fully douse the grief at knowing he won’t be around for Jack much longer.</p><p>“Sure, Jack,” He says easily.</p><p>Jack beams, darting around John’s legs with a careless “Bye, Uncle Arthur!”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur waits until he’s sure Jack is far enough away to release the cough that’s building in his chest. John’s face pinches a little at the sound, and he joins Arthur on the cot. </p><p>It’s not a bad fit this time, and Arthur’s grateful for it - John’s already looking at him like he’s a kicked puppy. </p><p>“Will you fucking quit it?” He snaps when he can breathe again.</p><p>Hurt flashes across John’s face. “Quit what? <em>Jesus</em>, Arthur.” </p><p>Arthur sighs. “I’m not gonna drop dead in front of you, John. Stop looking at me like that.”</p><p>John’s jaw tightens. “You’ve almost passed out on me what, two, three times? Reckon I have a right to look at you any way I want.”</p><p>All the fight drains out of Arthur, suddenly.</p><p>He’s tired, and he doesn’t want to fight with John anymore. “Just...makes me feel like an invalid. Weren’t looking at you like that in Colter.” He mutters.</p><p>John sighs through his nose. “Fair enough. I just- Arthur, you’re…”</p><p>“I know.” Arthur’s tired of people saying it. He looks over at John. “How many people did you tell?” </p><p>John shifts, suddenly, embarrassed at being caught. Arthur notes with amusement that John’s ears still go red when he’s ashamed of himself.</p><p>“Not that many.”</p><p>Arthur rolls his eyes. “<em>Who</em>?”</p><p>John huffs. “Tilly and Abigail, ‘cause they saw me helping you back here, and you know how they are. Charles, ‘cause he had to help me get your ass back on the cot.”</p><p>Arthur frowns. “What you mean, get back on the cot?”</p><p>John wrinkles his nose. “S’pose you don’t remember. You- had a real bad fit, started coughin’ in your sleep and fell off the cot.”</p><p>Shame chokes Arthur’s throat, thick and bitter. “Well, <em>shit</em>.”</p><p>“And...Dutch.” John says quietly. “'Cause I figured he deserved to know, even though he’s gone...mad.” </p><p>Arthur nods. “I told him. He came here-” <em>When was it? Last night? Fuck, he doesn’t know.</em> “He came in here.” </p><p>John nods in the corner of Arthur’s vision. </p><p>Arthur breaks the silence. “I didn’t know Charles was so good with Jack.”</p><p>John snorts. “I didn’t either, but Jack just kind of…” He waves his hand. “...latched onto him, and well, Charles is...good.”</p><p>Arthur nods. “He is.”</p><p><br/>
The silence falls again. It’s an easy quiet, though, once that Arthur’s missed. It seems like he hasn’t gotten a chance to rest since...before Blackwater. </p><p>His chest hurts, and he’s dying, and Dutch slips deeper into madness every day. Here, with John, though...Arthur doesn’t need to be anywhere or do anything, right now. </p><p> </p><p>He jerks when his chin hits his chest. </p><p> </p><p>He’s always tired, now, and he hates it. He feels weak. Useless. Old. If he sits down for long enough, he either starts coughing or nods off.</p><p>Kind of like Hosea.</p><p> </p><p>John’s clearly trying not to make him feel watched - Arthur can see him looking out of the corner of his eye. He appreciates the gesture.</p><p>The cot moves as John stands up. Arthur moves to follow him, but John shakes his head. “Get some rest while you can.” It’s gentle in a way that doesn’t make Arthur feel coddled. He wonders where the hell John learned how to do that. “Dutch’s jobs can wait.”</p><p>Arthur can’t argue with him on that. </p><p>Before he goes, John turns and looks at him. “I’ve been talking with Charles. We might be able to get out of here. Charles knows some men who might be able to help.”</p><p>Arthur nods. “Good. I’ve got enough money stashed to make sure you all can-”</p><p>John shakes his head. “You’re coming with us, dumbass. S’why I made sure you got to rest.” He sobers, looking Arthur straight in the face. “Don’t you die on me before then.”</p><p>Arthur sighs. “John I ain’t got-”</p><p>John walks away.</p><p>Arthur lies back on the cot, head spinning. If there’s anyone who can get them out of this mess, it’s Charles, and John is competent when he’s got his head straight. Arthur doesn’t doubt that between the two of them, they can manage to get everyone out. </p><p>He just doesn’t think <em>he’s</em> worth saving.</p><p>Not like this. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For Spel and Noel. Thank you for helping me brainstorm this one, and for always giving me a nudge when needed. </p><p>Work title and chapter titles are from James Agee <a href="https://www.davidpaulkirkpatrick.com/2012/06/30/james-agees-masterwork-knoxville-summer-of-1915-written-in-ninety-minutes/">Knoxville: Summer of 1915</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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